


Swordplay

by Hoodoo



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Brothers, Competition, Fencing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-14
Updated: 2013-06-14
Packaged: 2017-12-14 23:21:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/842601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hoodoo/pseuds/Hoodoo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Both Mycroft and Sherlock took fencing lessons as children. As adults, some of the only times they spend together is when dueling in a side room of the Diogenes Club. Sherlock has never beaten Mycroft, and claims the only reason he keeps coming back is to finally win… </p><p>(based on entry #680 from bbcsherlockheadcanon.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Swordplay

Mycroft carries a sword in his umbrella. Sherlock isn’t that haughty; he feels it is a showy bit of nonsense that only spies or evil geniuses in movies would have. Occasionally he remarks that, when younger, Mycroft always said he wanted to be a spy or evil genius.

He doesn’t tease that very often, because his brother always retorts with, “Sherlock wanted to be a pirate.”

Neither of them have ever told anyone that they used to play in an imaginary world of pirates and spies together.

Now Sherlock says that swords are outdated, and guns are more practical.

That is true, but it doesn’t stop him from joining Mycroft on semi-regular occasions in a private room of the Diogenes Club for some fencing.

As a matter of fact, he texted his brother and asked to meet him there. Mycroft waited patiently with a newspaper in the sitting room of the Club. When Sherlock strode in, as self-important and large as life as ever, he stood and led him down the hall to the room without a word.

Even as they suited up in the white, heavy canvas uniforms, they didn’t speak. Only when dressed did Mycroft break the silence.

“Which blade?”

“Sabre.”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows at his brother’s immediate decision. The sabre was Mycroft’s favored weapon; Sherlock typically chose the foil. Neither brother held a decisively longer reach other the other. The lighter weight of the foil made its handling techniques and strategy different, however, and knowing Mycroft worked more frequently with a sabre gave Sherlock a slight advantage during their bouts.

Not that a slight advantage mattered. Sherlock had never won against him.

Mycroft tipped his head to agree, and they fetched their blades.

Once armed, they took their positions on the floor. Mycroft settled into a muscle-memory guided stance, relaxed but primed. Sherlock cracked his wrist and flexed his neck, then dropped to proper posture as well.

It began.

They had no referees. There was no audience. The entire bout was done on the honor system, and they very rarely argued over touches that awarded points.

Mycroft took an early lead, striking Sherlock on the opposite arm before he could counter the move. It was always his weak point—parrying against a quick attack—but when Mycroft tried it a second time, his younger brother was able to fend him off.

Mycroft continued to press his attack, moving Sherlock backwards on the floor. The sabre wasn’t just swift in his hand, the sabre _was_ his hand, an extension that blurred through the air while Sherlock did his best to offset any legal touches.

After another two points, Mycroft backed off a bit to catch his breath.

Sherlock paused too.

Another flaw in his style: Not immediately striking at an opponent when the opponent was winded.

By the time Sherlock advanced, Mycroft had regulated his breathing.

He parried easily—how could someone with the mind he possessed be so predictable, always working towards his left side so often?—and then, Sherlock struck with an astounding amount of ferocity, swinging with motions that seemed too wild to be effective.

The sudden change caught Mycroft off guard, and he was only able to ward off a few of the vicious strikes. The power Sherlock put behind them was surprising too, and before he knew it, Mycroft was panting again, and backed to the end of the mat. His brother scored three touches, tying the score, but didn’t let up his assault until Mycroft managed to counter—he would have liked to brag it was by analyzing Sherlock’s pattern, but knew it was more luck than skill—startling Sherlock out of his attack mindset and the younger Holmes retreated.

It was only for a second, however, just enough for Mycroft to move closer to the center of the floor again. Then Sherlock was back on the offensive, slashing and pushing, swinging his weapon barely within the limits of the sport.

Through the mesh of his mask, he could see his younger brother’s eyes bright and wide. There was even a flash of a smile. He hadn’t looked this animated during one of their matches for a long time.

Truthfully, Mycroft was pleased Sherlock was enjoying it. On the other side of that coin, though, he was seven years older than his brother and could feel age creeping up on him the longer this lasted. His arm ached countering the attacks Sherlock was raining down at him.

Pleased or not, he’d never survive the smugness Sherlock would exude if he won.

So Mycroft toughed it out, ignoring the pain, allowing his brother to expend massive amounts of energy with those heavy-handed blows. He’d wear himself out soon enough—

“How are you doing, Mycroft? You seem a bit slower than normal,” Sherlock said.

—if Mycroft didn’t wear out sooner.

“I’m well, dear brother. I was pleasantly surprised today, first with an invitation to fence, and now with your new style of hack and slash.”

“I’ve been practicing. I’ve found a facility—just outside the law, mind you—that allows men to fight each other, and one of the members likes swords.”

“Oh really?” Mycroft panted. A particularly vicious strike made his arm tingle.

“Yes. He fancies himself some type of throwback to a barbarian or Roman soldier or some such—he has little finesse but he is good to rehearse against. I’ve adapted some of his barely legal techniques.”

Because he was now gasping for breath, the small chuckle that escaped Mycroft hurt his throat.

Sherlock laughed too—a rarity, here in the room his brother routinely bested him.

Laughing made Sherlock pause for a moment. Mycroft took advantage of the distraction to rest, sucking in deep lungfuls of air and allowing his blade to dip to the floor. He felt a little better with even this brief pause, but knew it wouldn’t be quite enough.

Still, as Sherlock’s rich laughter died away, Mycroft tensed. He’d attack again, and soon.

As anticipated, Sherlock rushed him again. The fleeting mirth was replaced with determination. He was so certain he had this in the bag . . .

Mycroft couldn’t help but laugh out loud; a true laugh, like his brother’s had just been.

It almost pulled Sherlock up short. But he was committed to the strike, and followed through, even as Mycroft neutralized the attack with a swift movement, bringing the edge of his blade up from the mat so quickly and under his elbow that Sherlock had no way to deflect the motion.

Another point to Mycroft.

Now he couldn’t stop laughing.

Sherlock demanded, “Why are you laughing?” even as he was put on the defensive.

Mycroft pushed him just as hard as he had been pushed, although his movements were more precise. Small flicks of the wrist—hard to control with the heavier blade, but he had had years of practice—versus the more savage, forearm and shoulder movements Sherlock had been trying were still effective, and in short order, before Sherlock could completely comprehend the turning of the tables, his brother struck him with the tip of the blade on his side, on his chest; a touch that would slide in between ribs and through a lung lobe if this were real combat.

Still surprised, Sherlock demanded again, _“Why are you laughing?”_

“Because you think you’re the only one who was clever enough to seek out non-traditional training,” he replied, between chuckles, and then announced, “That was five points. Bout to me.”

Sherlock ripped off his mask to concede, even as he scowled.

“We should go all the way to fifteen points, sometime,” he grumbled.

Mycroft eased his own mask off his head. Removal made it easier to breathe now, with fresher air, and it helped evaporate the sweat. “Wouldn’t going longer be a much more bitter pill to swallow, because I’d _still_ beat you?”

“You’re a git. A twat.”

“No more than you, dearest brother.”

Only the two of them could hear the affection underlying the insults they shared.

 

_fin._


End file.
